


here comes the sun(flower)

by rhealitycheck



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:48:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25454965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhealitycheck/pseuds/rhealitycheck
Summary: She grew up surrounded by flowers; so naturally, she became somewhat of a seasoned expert in growing flowers. And yet, he would never have thought that out of all the things she was capable of,she would be growing flowersin her lungs.
Relationships: Mikasa Ackerman & Armin Arlert & Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman/Eren Yeager
Comments: 25
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

She grew up surrounded by flowers.

Living next door to the Ackermans, he learned to keep his windows open all day; not only to air out the stale air, but also to let the hyacinth and gardenia wash away the stench of mary-jane and dirty laundry in his room.

Her mother had a green thumb, Eren knew this, and she definitely put hers to use. Their yards were decked with a few dozen flowerbeds, with new ones blooming every week: from the native forget-me-nots to the tulips Mrs. Ackerman somehow managed to grow amid the 35 degrees summer weather of always-sunny Shiganshina.

It was clear she had a talent.

A talent she so ardently passed on to her only daughter.

Eren had been friends with Mikasa for as long as he could remember—naturally, as two next-door neighbor kids growing up in a posh housing complex in the suburbs—and he had listened to her prattle on and on about various kinds of flowers for just as long. They’d spend their days in their shared fence-less backyard, her occupied with chopping off the dried leaves of her flowers and he with whatever he found amusing that day (crossing the yard from time to time just to bother her for some attention). Some days, when he noticed a couple or more pots of plants placed to the side of the shed, he’d help her shovel the ground and later in the afternoon, his mom would have cookies and orange juice waiting for them by the deck. Other days, Armin would be there with them, reading an old book from his grandfather’s collection to Eren who would have his head in Mikasa’s lap as she arranged her freshly picked baby breaths and peonies in a vase and make flower crowns with the leftovers.

“Has it sprouted yet?”

Side-eyeing the book now lying on his floor— _Flowers for Algernon_ —he rubbed the spot on his head where her perfect aim had yet again scored him another headache. She didn’t have to throw a book at his head but then again, he might or might not deserve it for _possibly_ spacing out midway through her midnight existential rambles.

“Has it grown any sprouts yet?” She reiterated.

He blinked up innocently at her expectant face framed by the windowsill and she sighed in contained exasperation, “The mystery flower.”

Something clicked in his brain. “Oh. _That_.”

She nodded enthusiastically, obsidian irises regaining some of its spark as her entire complexion brightened up in anticipation of his answer.

At this point, the entire neighborhood was well aware of her fondness for gardening and by Mikasa’s tenth birthday, there was no longer any surprise birthday presents for her, what with everyone giving her flower seeds every year. And yet she never minded, always more than happy to receive one and add them into her growing collection in the garden. This particular one had been given to her courtesy of Jean; and it had been the most excited she had been about a packet of seeds in a long while given that the boy had adamantly refused to tell which flower the seeds belonged to.

She had asked for Carla’s permission to plant it in the Jaeger’s backyard; to which his mom was more than happy to oblige. He knew she only did it because she was quickly running out of ground to cover in the Ackerman’s half of the yard but just for a moment, Eren pretended that she had chosen to do so as a big ‘ _fuck you_ ’ to Jean and let himself revel in the satisfaction brought by such fantasy.

“Eren, you’re spacing out again,” she half-whined.

He snapped out of it just in time to duck down behind the wall, narrowly missing yet another fast-moving projectile object. As the book landed with a loud thud on his floor, he slowly edged towards it to take a closer look, careful to mind the window in case she decided to practice pitching at him.

 _The Sunflower Forest_ —how many flower-themed novels did she own?—on its own was definitely enough to knock him out for good, couple that with Mikasa’s trained arm and he’d definitely, without a shred of doubt, be done for. “ _Jesus_. Do you intend to kill me, Mika?”

“So don’t ignore me.” He just knew she was rolling her eyes at him without even having to peek.

“Alright, alright.” Braving himself to step into her line of sight, he tentatively raised both hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t know. You’re the flower expert.”

“You haven’t checked.” She deflated.

“What do you expect?” He shrugged and her face crumpled up further into a dejected look. “Let’s go check on them, then.”

There was a questioning look on her face until he climbed out of his window, walked to the edge of his roof, and beckoned her to meet him half-way. She followed suit, climbing out of her own window and taking his outstretched hand as he assisted her in crossing over to his side, mindful of the small gap between their roof. They climbed back up to the higher landings and edged their way around to the other side of his roof, Eren holding her hand and keeping her at an arm’s length at all times.

“Why can’t we use the door like normal people do?” She mumbled under her breath as she hauled herself onto the Jaeger’s guest room balcony, taking a short breather before she’d have to follow after him in climbing down the orange tree growing out of his backyard.

“What’s the fun in that?”

Another roll of her eyes.

Two-third of the way down, he peered down to see how far down the ground was and decided he could handle the falling distance, landing on his feet with a calculated risk. As he dusted away the leaves stuck in his hair, he glanced up to see Mikasa handling the descend with poise and grace (as she always does).

“You’re not getting your books back, by the way.”

“Keep it. You need it more than I do,” she called back, amusement in her tone. He raised his brow in question; his confusion only making her grin wider. “Ms. Ral assigned our class _Flowers for Algernon_ for a report due this Friday, remember?”

He groaned and she laughed at his expense, stepping into the branch that marked the half-way point. “Will you help me write the report?”

She rolled her eyes at him, but even at a distance, he could see the mirth dancing in her eyes. She snorted, not unkindly, “I’m not letting you copy off mine, Eren.”

“Not even to give me a quick summary of the story?”

Now almost at the two-third of the way down, she stopped to pick a ripe orange on a low-hanging branch, absentmindedly replying: “You should read the book. It’s a good read.”

 _Of course_ she would think that. It was her second favorite book right after _The Secret Garden_.

“I’m not the reader type,” he answered lamely, mind half-occupied with keeping an eye on her in case she slipped or lost her footing, but of course she didn’t; she had always been very agile and in control of her body, standing on her tippy-toes picking oranges or not.

Once content with the harvest, she turned to meet his eyes for a split second. His mind barely registered the mischief gleaming in her eyes moments before she assumed a sitting position and held an orange in a change-up grip.

“Catch.”

Before he knew it, oranges were flying at him. Though out of breath and nearly face-planting more times than his pride would allow him to admit, he couldn’t find it in himself to be mad at her when he heard her giggling at his futile attempt to not let any touch the ground.

He set down the oranges on the deck as he caught his breath, then grumbled up at her complete with a matching scowl just to put on a show. “Tell me the quick summary or I’m not catching you.”

There was a ghost of a smile on her lips. “You wouldn’t.”

He wouldn’t.

But he knew that if he had, she would’ve landed on her feet anyway.

Mikasa had planted the mystery seeds along the sideway entrance to the backyard, right next to the Jaeger’s wraparound porch. The newly sprouted plant has a few sets of baby leaves already growing. The first few sets at the lower part were oval in shape but the older ones were beginning to take on the shape of tiny hearts.

“Can you tell what it is?” He was much more invested in this mystery flower than he initially thought he’d be.

She looked him straight in the eye with a pointed look. “I’m not a walking encyclopedia of flowers, Eren,” she deadpanned.

“You might as well be.”

She sighed, clearly getting tired of dealing with his antics so late into the night. “Whatever flower it is, I’m glad it’s not roses.”

Quirking his brow at her, he glanced her way. “What do you have against roses?”

“It’s _cliché_. They’re overdone, especially the red ones. If someone brought me red roses, I won’t hesitate to slap them then storm off without any explanation.”

A few seconds passed in comfortable silence before he finally quietly chuckled, “You hate the thorns.”

She smiled in earnest.

“I hate the thorns.”

* * *

She grew up surrounded by flowers; so naturally, she became somewhat of a seasoned expert in growing flowers.

She had the steps of tending to carnations, what to do and not to do when caring for hydrangeas, the characteristics of each types of soil all memorized within the confines of her brain. Her eyes were trained in spotting irregularities that may indicate the need for special attention to a specific plant, her lithe hands in trimming old dried leaves without her so much as to have to think about it. She could repot flowers in mere seconds with her eyes closed—and hands tied behind her back.

Eren knew of all these for a fact and he wouldn’t expect any less from Mikasa.

And yet, he would never have thought that out of all the things she was capable of, she would be growing flowers _in her lungs_.

It had started as a cough, which then evolved into a coughing fit, which overtime became shortness of breath from time to time, then along came the occasional asphyxiation; all of which was followed by a trail of yellow petals left on its wake.

“What flowers has petals like this?”

She had thought aloud one morning, a week into him walking in on her choking on her bedroom floor and her admitting that she had been dealing with it for three months by then.

He frowned. “What is knowing going to accomplish?”

She shrugged, going back to examining the long and narrow yellow petal on her hand. But if there’s one thing he was terrified of at that moment, it was of how well he could read her. Because if he could accurately identify a shift in her moods and emotions by catching even a glimpse of the slightest change in her irises at a distance, then he mustn’t have mistaken the look of wonder glazed over her eyes when she held up the petals she coughed up against the sunlight. And he didn’t, for the life of him, know what the look would mean—for her, for _them_.

“At least it’s not roses.”

As if that made it any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think we all know what flower it is (i suck at foreshadowing)
> 
> i kinda have more of this au but idk i kinda like it as it is, let me know what you think


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He would never understand how she could still hold so much love for something that was slowly killing her from the inside, _literally_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the second chapter no one asked for, albeit a relatively short one. enjoy.

She was reading again— _The perks of being a wallflower_ , even though she wasn’t taking literature elective this year—with her head hanging upside down on the edge of his couch. He would never understand how she could still hold so much love for something that was slowly killing her from the inside, _literally_.

“I think I know what flower it is.”

She had been so casual about the whole thing, as if announcing the weather, like it hadn’t been something important that would dictate quite literally, whether she would live or die before telling her story; and he figured that, too, isn’t something he’d ever fully understand.

He tried his best not to grimace.

“What is it?”

“A sunflower.”

His chest constricted in a way that made him light-headed, in the most unpleasant way imaginable.

“..That’s a really big flower, Mika.”

“I know.”

“And you’re..” he paused, searching for words that could convey the horror he felt, “really _tiny_.”

“It’s pretty.”

It took everything in him not to throw up.

* * *

“You should tell them.”

She peered up to him from underneath her lashes; a picture of nonchalance, despite him catching her red-handed ( _literally_ ), a couple of whole sunflower bulbs cradled on her palm and yellow petals scattered about. “Tell who what?”

“The person you love.”

“Oh.”

Having climbed down when he saw her tending to the mystery flower at the foot of the orange tree, he landed on the ground with a soft thud. The grass and the remainder of morning dew crunched underfoot, breaking his fall. The mystery flower, as they had discovered in the past week, had been a sunflower all along—a _terrible_ irony.

“About how you feel about them,” he added, almost pressing, when he caught nothing that would indicate that she would answer anytime soon.

Sitting himself down to meet her eyes, he read an unspeakable something, somewhat like fatigue clouding her irises, as if she had been worn down by the weight of the world for centuries—and he wondered if that hadn’t been far from the truth. “What do you suppose that’s going to do?”

“They could love you back.”

She snorted. “I doubt that.”

“Mikasa, _please_.” He begged in a final act of desperation, his voice cracking a little at the plead. “You can’t die like this. Don’t you want to see the ocean again?”

Growing up in a valley town, they had been far from the ocean—much more so Mikasa, who had spent her early childhood in the mountain area. They never set foot in one, in fact, up until Grisha took them on a trip to the beach when they were twelve. They’ve been in love with the ocean ever since and made it a tradition to go every summer.

Her gaze softened, voice rendered to a softer pitch. “I do. Of course I do.”

“So tell them.” He caught her hand before she could turn away, holding her gaze and keeping her grounded in place. “Right now it’s just a believed unrequited love, but if they love you back then you’ll be healed. And we can go to the ocean again.”

“I won’t be healed.”

“How would you know if you never try?”

She averted her gaze and smiled a smile that never quite reached her eyes. “The person I’m in love with doesn’t love me back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I just do.” He could tell she almost laughed bitterly, yet contradicting it with her next words: “And I swear I’m not bitter, it’s just a fact. It’s just something I have to live with.”

“Who in their right mind _wouldn’t_ love you?”

She shrugged, corner of lips quirked up in an unreadable half-smile, and muttered in a quiet whisper as if speaking of a funny little inside joke only she could understand. “I could think of a few people.”

Before he could even blink, the self-pitying look dissipated from her face and the twinkle returned, once again glittering her irises. “And that’s that on that, so how about we just go to the ocean right now, while I still could?”

They went to the ocean that weekend.

* * *

The day she got admitted to the hospital, he sat next to the sunflowers by his porch for hours.

A memory of a distant summer flitted through his mind. Sitting there, he could almost smell the sugary sweet fragrant smell of raspberry pie wafting in the air, feel his shirt slick against his back from the bag of ice Armin had snuck down his shirt when he’s distracted earlier, and the comforting weight of the sunflower crown Mikasa weaved for him atop his unruly hair.

He remembered asking her why she had made hers out of heliotrope, a flower Jean had gotten her when he asked her out on a date on the last day before summer break just a few days back; Eren distinctly recalled fighting back the unattractive green monster rising from its slumber the entire time. From the corner of his eyes, he caught the slight glint in the knowing look Armin shot his way, while she had all but smile.

“It reminds me of Jean; and every time I’m reminded of him, I think of you.”

He blanched in unadulterated disgust. “How does that make sense?”

“It just does.” She shrugged.

Armin fake coughed to cover the gleeful giggles threatening to fall out of his lips, failing miserably in keeping his amusement a secret.

“You hate Jean, so he reminds me of you. Simple,” she explained, as if that explanation had made it hold any more sense.

Eren hated that he understand that logic now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t _care_ what she wants, he didn’t give a flying _fuck_. Clearly, she was _out of her goddamn mind_ if she thought dying was a good idea.
> 
> _Screw her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning :** i’m very liberal in my use of italics in this chapter. _very._

Different people reacts differently when told that their days were numbered.

Some worked themselves to the bones, desperately trying to etch their name into history, afraid of being forgotten in a sea of faces. Some drowned themselves in self-pity, grieving the last few breaths they have left in the company of their chosen substances to dull the simultaneous ache and numbness. Some started running, checking off as many items in their bucket list as humanly possible, making space in their schedule to cram in everything they wish to accomplish before leaving this world.

Mikasa, however, danced.

She lived life as usual, marching to the beat of her own drum in its normal crescendo; not slowing down yet not rushing herself either. She went to school, did her homework a week ahead of time as she always does, studied for the standardized test she would most likely be too sick to take, picked out dress for prom and graduation she wasn’t going to attend, make promises of a reunion a year into the future that she wouldn’t be able go fulfill. It was like the impending end of her days among the living didn’t affect her much, as if that fact had amounted to nothing.

He had asked her multiple times, about how she remained so calm in the face of the reaper, and her answer had always been the same:

“It’s not that I’m not afraid of dying; it’s just that _I know it’s inevitable_. It’s impossible for me to unlove them, because loving them is almost like breathing at this point. Whether I keep loving them or not loving them, I’ll die anyway, so why not be in love?”

“It surely is possible to love in a way that doesn’t tear you apart,” he countered, determined to change her mind this time.

“But I want it to.”

At his lack of reply, she blinked up at him, taking in his clenched jaw and deathlike pallor before averting her gaze, rubbing her blood-drenched palms onto her sunflower-yellow light summer dress—now that they came out in perfect bulbs, complete with a good few inches of stem even, she had taken to weave flower crowns with them. “As morbid as it sounds, it’s _pretty_. To be willing to die for someone, out of love and devotion; I think that’s beautiful.”

“That’s _awful_ ,” he corrected. “No one deserves to die a painful death for loving someone who can’t see how wonderful they are.”

“I don’t mind. He’s worth it.”

“So it’s a _he_.”

That detail had spilled out of her lips without warning. Judging by the way her eyes went wide and her clasping her hand over her mouth, it mustn’t have been something she had meant to cough up—among _other things_.

She busied herself with pulling a stem from under another, letting the silence stretch on and ignoring his scrutinizing gaze.

“You have to tell him, Mikasa.”

She pretended not to hear him, jamming the end of the stem in between another two twisted stems. The stem bent out of shape under her forceful ministration. Giving up her short cold-shoulder act and setting down her half-done crown—now one flower short from completion, awaiting the next wave of coughing fit—she threw her hand in frustration. “What good would that do?”

“It may not be unrequited. He could love you back.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“So we’ll figure it out.”

“There will be no we when he rejects me,” she muttered under her breath. “And what would it mean for him if he knows he caused this? The person I’m in love with, he’s exactly the type who loves and gives with every inch of his being. Knowing that he caused what’s happening to me would tear him apart from the inside out, especially because he cannot return my feelings.”

“He certainly deserves it.”

“ _Eren_. Let it go, I’m not telling.”

“So that’s it then? You’re just going to die for some.. some _jerk_ —”

“ _He’s not a jerk_. And I would, yeah, without hesitation.”

“This is very _typical_ of you, Mikasa. You just let people walk all over you! It’s like you don’t even care—”

“ _Watch it_ ,” she warned, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “This is my life we’re talking about, Eren; _of course_ I care. But that also means I can choose whatever I want to make of it, and that includes how I choose to die.”

She caught herself before things could escalate further and straightened up before continuing in an even voice, suddenly seeming to squirm in place. “Now, would you mind not crowding my personal space?”

He didn’t realize that he had been cornering her into a wall in the heat of the moment and promptly stepped away. He was positive he was going to say something he would regret if he pressed the matter further so he decided to leave right then. He was still pissed but if he wanted to convince her to get better, throwing a tantrum would only drive her away—it would be a dick move, regardless, and he never wanted to make her feel uncomfortable. He needed to cool off.

“You don’t die for someone, Mikasa. If you _truly_ love them, _you live for them_.”

With that, he closed the door behind him, catching a glimpse of the tall stack of crown on her desk.

* * *

He had accidentally overheard one of their arguments—it was hard not to with their house practically almost on top of each other, separated only by a ten-foot patch of grass—and it wasn’t pretty. There was shouting, _a lot of shouting_ , then there was her mother’s hysteric cries that never quite stop all through the night.

But then there was silence.

Five months after the day she was admitted to the hospital (the same day her parents found out she was suffocating from the sunflowers growing in her lungs), the bi-weekly shouting match ceased. The Ackerman household had gone quiet, and it had remained so ever since.

Somehow, Mikasa had defused the situation. Somehow, she had made her parents accept her decision. _Somehow, she had convinced her parents to let her die._

Even after three months of silence, it was clear that Mr. and Mrs. Ackerman were heartbroken, still. Eren frequently saw her father on their backyard’s porch, smoking his fifth cigarettes of the day, an almost-empty bottle of vodka sitting on an almost-as-empty spot by his calf. Her mother would visit his every Thursday and even though he locked himself in his room and made himself scarce to give the two women some privacy, he never failed to notice Mrs. Ackerman’s red-rimmed eyes and crooked smiles when she bid them goodbye for the night.

Mikasa was well-aware of how her decision had fared on her family, he’s sure, but her mind was made, her choice resolute.

But while her parents had long since given up on goading her into considering surgery as an option, Eren hadn’t given up on saving her. He didn’t care that she wanted to choose her fate or whatever, he wasn’t going to let her die. He was going to drag her ass to the surgery table and uprooted it himself, even if she kicks and screams the whole way, _even if she hates him for it._

He didn’t _care_ what she wants, he didn’t give a flying _fuck_. Clearly, she was _out of her goddamn mind_ if she thought dying was a good idea.

_Screw her._

* * *

“Eren, are you sure Mikasa’s in love with me?”

Armin sat backward on his chair, his gaze calculating and laced with all carefulness and tentativeness he didn’t possess.

He stopped pacing around his room to peek at the window across from his, making sure the curtains were still partly drawn shut, a tell-tale sign that Mikasa was still at practice and wasn’t there to eavesdrop on their conversation. He locked his window for good measure, as if it could mask the frustrated half-scream he let out next. “Who else could it be!? She’s coughing up sunflowers for fuck’s sake!”

Armin had been walking on eggshells around Mikasa, balancing between prodding for as much details out of her as possible all the while making sure she wasn’t completely uncomfortable. This particular information must’ve been something that he hadn’t caught wind of before this very moment. Eren wasn’t all that surprised, really—he had a feeling, if he hadn’t made a habit out of sneaking into her bedroom and caught her choking on petals, he wouldn’t have known at all.

Armin went rigid in his seat, the slight swivel of his chair halted as a horrified expression made way onto his face: brows scrunched together and lips pursed into a thin line. He seemed nervous for her.

“..That’s _uhh_ , a big flower.”

“Yeah.”

“And Mikasa’s really _small_.”

“Yeah..”

“Look, man, I know she refuses to tell us outright who it is but all the clues point to you.” A quirk of his blond brow beckoned him to further elaborate his argument. “Sunflower symbolizes adoration, loyalty, intelligence, happiness, and friendship. That’s all you, Ar, down to every last bit.”

Ocean eyes trained on his lap and face pensive were signs that Armin was seriously contemplating his theory. He clicked his tongue when he had seemingly reached a conclusion.

“Say she’s actually in love with me—“

“And she is. I _know_ she is.”

“then what do you want me to do about it?”

“Confess to her.” Eren was quick to explain when he gaped at him. “I know you’re not in love with her but you love her enough to be with her, right?”

“You want me to fake-date her,” Armin noted quietly, a faraway look in his eyes.

He nodded. “Just for a while, until we figure out a better solution. All we need is time.”

That seemed to snap him right back to reality. He directed his focus to him, meeting his eyes with a somewhat unreadable intensity. “And do you honestly think that would work?”

He answered with the same amount of honesty. “No, but it’s the only plan we have.”

He could almost see him weighing his options with a scale, he imagined it to be the one made out of gold often associated with court houses. “Mikasa’s my friend, best friend. I’m not lying to her. I just won’t, _I refuse to_. It’s cruel to let her wholeheartedly love someone who cannot return just as much. She doesn’t deserve that.”

He didn’t point out that that’s precisely what caused their predicament in the first place.

Eren wasn’t stupid. He knew it was a selfish request. It wouldn’t be fair for either of them, not Armin, and certainly not Mikasa, but—

“We can’t just _not try_.”

Armin casted another long gaze at him, one that made him feel _naked_ , even though he was decked in a _The Grateful Dead_ tee he stole from Zeke last year and his old middle school lacrosse team’s sweatshirt. He was deconstructing him bit by bit in his mind, he could tell, probably trying to read his mind—and honestly, Eren was convinced that he might just be able to. Eren tried his best not to squirm in his seat or sweat excessively as he grew self-conscious of a secret he didn’t even knew he had in the first place.

“Fine. I’ll consider it,” he finally said after a while, “And you’re _a hundred percent sure_ it’s me?”

“Who else could it be? I thought it was Jean at first—because of the whole mystery flower thing—but he doesn’t fit happiness, loyalty, friendship, _especially_ intelligence.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Armin chuckled, sounding a little lighter now that he was reminded of the somewhat lighthearted fact that was his and Jean’s rivalry. However, he was just as quick to flip back into his serious mode. “But what about you?”

Eren almost laughed at that.

Key word being almost.

He settled on a raised brow and an amused smile as he gestured to his general self. “What part of me screams sunflower to you?”

“I think you’re complicating it. It could just be something she associates you with: sunflower represents happiness, and you make her happy. Simple. Hanahaki itself is a disease born out of feelings, it’s reasonable enough to deduce that the explanation as to what flowers each person has doesn’t have to be logical either.”

He did let himself snort this time, because Armin had a point, but he was sure that—

“She doesn’t love me _that_ way, Ar.”

“Have you asked?”

“I don’t have to ask. It’s obvious.”

It was Armin’s turn to snort. “And you were _furious_ when she said the same thing last month.”

“It’s different.”

“I don’t think it is.”

But Eren doubted that.

“The two of you should talk— _yeah_ , I think that’d be good for you both,” Armin mentioned off-handedly, almost as an afterthought as he was more distracted by a glimpse he caught of Mikasa walking into her room.

Either she had a psychic sense of sort or she felt their gaze boring into the side of her skull because she immediately looked up and waved at them across the window, a smile blooming on her lips. Eren unlocked the window in reply and if possible, she brightened up even more. If she thought it was unusual for him to have his windows closed, she didn’t say.

“There you are, Armin, I thought you bailed on me. Sorry to make you wait, coach Shadis held me back for a chat. Should we get started on the project now?”

“Sure, I’ll be right over.”

“Just come right in, the door’s unlocked. I’ll freshen up real quick.”

While Armin was occupied with collecting his bag he left under his desk, she shot Eren a look as she exited to the bathroom, silently mouthing: _and_ that _is how normal people visit each other_. He rolled his eyes at her and though she already disappeared down the hall, he could hear her bell-like laugh anyway.

Having gathered all his belongings scattered about, Armin excused himself. Eren waved him off from his lounging spot on the bed, already looking up a selection of series on netflix to procrastinate his chemistry lab report on. Just before he shut the door behind him, Armin’s face darkened, storm brewing behind the blue of his irises as he spoke in a low voice. “Eren, promise me you’ll ask her, okay? There’s no reason either of you should suffer.”

He had a feeling he caught sight of the red petals in the trash bin under his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ideally, this fic has only two chapters left but the updates will probably be slower from here on bc i don’t have a clear idea of what i want for the ending yet.
> 
> if anyone has ideas, i’m down for some suggestions.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren swallowed down the lump in his throat with great effort. His throat felt dry, still.
> 
> “I can’t stand and watch you die, Mikasa.”
> 
> “Then you’ll have to learn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hii i know it's been a while, thank you for all the kind comments and i hope this chapter is somewhat worth the (unnecessarily) long wait

“It’s not Armin.”

He looked up from his idling of picking on the dirt that had wedged their way under his nail bed courtesy of that morning’s session of de-potting some lisianthus. He blinked up at her.

“What?”

The corner of her lips lifted in an amused smirk, but her eyes were still glued to the old notebook in her hand. “The person I’m in love with is not Armin. He told me you ambushed him the other day.”

“ _Traitor_.”

She laughed at that, the kind of laugh that rattled her whole frame, hindering her from completing a small doodle she modeled out of freshly picked violet delphiniums. Her pen lied forgotten as her laughter died down and she perused the worn pages before he noticed her stopping midway, turning to take in his sour expression.

“There’s no saving me, Eren, you have to understand that.”

He met her eyes with crass determination, about to retaliate, only to be caught off guard by the thin smile stretched across her glossed lips. She tore her gaze away, laying out the plucked delphiniums petals on a tissue paper before folding it in and tucking them between some random pages she happened to have open. “The person I’m in love with doesn’t love me back, and he never will. I know it’s a fact because I’ve watched him all my life, enough to know that he’d never look my way in the way I want him to look at me. I know this for a fact.

“I also know that if I tell him that I love him, he’ll know I have the disease. I can never lie to him, he can read me like an open book. And knowing him, he’ll pretend to love me back—he’s sweet like that, this person—but I’ll always know he doesn’t actually mean it. So even if he begs, goes on one knee, swears on great Sina that he’s in love with me, the sunflower will keep growing as does my love for him grow each day.”

Eren swallowed down the lump in his throat with great effort. His throat felt dry, still.

“I can’t stand and watch you die, Mikasa.”

“Then you’ll have to _learn_.”

He was clenching his jaw again, he knew because she always tapped on her own to remind him to relax them whenever he does. Her face lifted in humor, a fraction of her smile reached her eyes. “You’re right, by the way.”

“ _Of course I am_ ,” he scoffed, crossing his arm and leaning back in his seat, “but which one are you admitting to?”

Her smile never faltered as she pushed a chair towards the tall bookshelf in the corner of her room, shaking her head lightly at his antics. Leave it to him to be unabashedly petty even in the most serious of time.

“That if you truly love someone, you’d live for them.” She shot him a grateful smile for steadying the slight wobble of the chair when she stepped on it. “I’d do it if I could, I’d do anything for him. But that is the one thing I cannot do. He doesn’t love me—and that’s okay, it’s really fine—but it also means I can’t live for him even if I try my hardest. And I love him, I can’t pretend I don’t.”

She stacked a hardback copy of _In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower_ on top of the notebook, reaching overhead to place the stack on the top shelf where it could sit untouched for the next couple of weeks. “I knew I was doomed from the moment I knew I‘m in love with him, so I’ve made peace with it. You should too.”

There was no point in trying to change her mind, he knew. She was as stubborn as he was—if not more, given how she still chose to stick with him after all the shits he put her through. Armin had learned what impartiality meant as soon as Mikasa moved next door. He always had to play referee every time the two of them butt-heads for if he hadn’t, they would never have been friends in the first place.

What’s crazy was that he actually understood everything she was saying now that he himself was growing roses. 

He loved her, and he would love nothing more than to dedicate his every breath for her. But alas the universe wasn’t the kindest to him, to either of them. They were forced to pick between being separated from the love of their life or live a loveless life; and to him, the choice was clear as a cloudless summer sky.

Sighing in defeat, Eren relented this once. 

“Do you ever regret falling for him?”

She answered without hesitation: “Not even for a second. He’s worth every petals, and more.”

He tried not to let his bitterness show.

“You really do love him, don’t you?”

She smiled, the widest he’d seen on her thus far. The mirth engulfed her irises fully.

“He is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

* * *

These days she wore light summer dresses that reach below her knees. 

She preferred mixing different material and textures to prints and only wore ones made out of fabrics with more grip (the feel of silk and satin creeps her out for some reason). Her favorite was—unsurprisingly—an old linen sundress he got her a few birthday past, one which she dyed yellow in an attempt to salvage it from a grass stain and embroidered tiny sunflowers all over. When the temperature started steadily dropping, wind started blowing a tad harder, and the burnt-colored leafs crunched underfoot, she layered turtle necks under her spaghetti straps, black tights under her skirt, and at times, blazer overtop if her hands shakes and teeth chatters. Some days she wore slacks and dressy sweaters for a change but never once had she gone twice in a row without a dress. 

One thing that stayed the same no matter the season was the red scarf around her neck (only Mikasa would get cold in the midst of August). 

“I could drop dead any second now, Eren. I don’t want my ghost outfit to be some baggy sweatpants,” she had laughed when he inquired her as to why that was, “but if nothing else, I’d like to take this scarf to the afterlife. Do you mind?”

“If that’s the case, I would’ve asked you to return it years ago.” She beamed up at him, and he looked away for fear of being blinded. “Who’d you haunt?”

“You.”

There was no pause in her answer, nothing that would indicate how she felt about it either, only a faraway look and something he couldn’t quite name clouding her dark irises.

“You wouldn’t haunt your guy?”

His question tapered off the edge with wonder. For what exactly—the fact that she still chose to follow him even in death or how nonchalant she had been about it—he wasn’t sure. 

She shrugged, a knowing smile. “Same difference.”

* * *

He came knocking on her window a week later. 

“Can you teach me how to weave a flower crown?”

She simply stood there in her white night gown and hair braided into pigtails that had begun to lose their shapes and came untangled, blinking up at him for a solid minute as if willing him to disappear from sight. When he failed to vanish into thin air, she loosened her scarf and draped them to shield more of her arms from the biting night air and leaned against her window frame for support. “What brought this on?”

“Dunno, just feel like it, I guess.”

She stared straight back at him with bleary eyes, completely incredulous. “At 4 AM?” 

Under her calculating gaze, he suddenly didn’t trust his voice at that moment and settled on shrugging in the most casual, non-suspecting way he could muster; all the while fidgeting with the strap of the backpack haphazardly slung over his shoulder. 

“Okay,” she sighed defeatedly—not unkindly—pushing herself off the frame to give ways for him inside and scrambling off to search the drawers where she kept all her craft supplies. “What flowers do you want?”

“Actually,” he started, and she paused. “I got two dozen of roses from the market the other day.”

He sat himself by the foot of her bed, only to relocate himself when she sat on it and pat the spot next to her. “I already plucked out all the thorns too,” he offered.

She contemplated the pair of bouquet he produced from his backpack, brows scrunched up in scrutiny. When she peered back at him, it was with a look that was chockfull of question: “Is that why your hands are in terrible shapes these past few days?”

The long, jagged dried-up scabs peeking from underneath his bandaged palms were answer enough.

She took the bundle from his hand and started unwrapping the layers of crinkled newspaper. “Are you sure you don’t want to start with something else? Roses can be quite tricky. If you still want red, we can go with marigold.”

“Nah, roses are perfect. They’re my favorite.”

“You _cheese_.”

She rolled her eyes at him, crinkling up her nose in exaggerated distaste but he couldn’t find it in him to share the strong sentiment she had for red roses.

Humanity’s appreciation for the beauty and perfection of the red rose is well-documented, in art, literature, mythology, or on screens. From classic love stories such as _Romeo and Juliet_ to a modern televised take on love like _The Bachelor_ , the red rose has been associated with love and passion for thousands of years. And her disdain for it largely stems from this cliché. 

But what she hates about red roses, is exactly what he adores about them.

Red roses might be, as she puts it, lacking of the imagination and effort a person who feels deeply for another should ideally have, but he thinks that it is allowed to be cheesy and for good reasons. 

While it’s largely impossible to find consistency in the symbolism of flowers as the meaning changes over time, red rose is one of the rare exceptions, wherein it consistently retains its universal and undisputed meaning throughout history— _love_.

It is a trusty choice to rely on when you cannot put into words how deep your feelings run—be it love, longing, or desire. It communicates the most complicated of intense emotions there was; a flower that distinctly conveys respect, admiration, and devotion, yet also represents heartfelt regret and sorrow all at once (and all the complexities and intricacies his feelings for her are). The shade of red is just as significant, with deep red roses thought to convey deep passion and commitment, bright red representing romance, and burgundy often used to send message where your love is (as yet) unrequited. The giving of a red rosebud also signifies a specific meaning, symbolising young love, innocence, purity and unpretentious beauty.

But most of all, it’s just so unmistakably _her_.

He knew he could always depend on her, even when he himself didn’t think he would need to. He noticed how she always keeps _White Rabbit_ (she hooked his ten years old self up and he couldn't get enough of it ever since) on hand and would secretly snuck a few into his pockets on days when he walks a little slower. He noticed that when he spaces out more than usual, she makes a point to accidentally bump to him on her way to class, even when his was on the opposite side of where she needs to be. He noticed her always hovering on the edge of his peripheral vision, making sure he’s okay even when he seems to not want to talk to her all the while respecting that he needs some time away from her. He noticed the little nudge, quick squeeze of a hand in reassurance, a lingering touch on his bicep, and other small physical contact she does to help ground him when he seems to be in his head a lot. She’s just always there, always understands what‘s going on in his mind and knows how to make him feel better before he even realizes that he’s feeling down.

She is a fool-proof plan he didn’t need to think of, someone to fall back on when all else fails. 

All things considered, red roses—while massively morbid and unnecessarily messy—wasn’t such a terrible way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone has a comment on anything, do tell. i've been sitting on this draft for days now, unsatisfied with the third half but not knowing exactly what's odd about it. i decided not to think too much of it since i figured i'll never post it otherwise, hopefully it wasn't too bad
> 
> anywayy i've added the number of chapters because everyone requested for a happy ending but i refused to give up on the angst lol, so this is your warning: expect a light storm in the coming chapter
> 
> as always, thank you for reading!


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